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Now available at LI and these lovely vendors, the second K&T investigation...Kanaan & Tilney: The Case of the Man Eater

Cover by Dar Albert

Wolf-Beast and ex-cop Lowell Kanaan recently brought his boyfriend, Elementalist and mystery author John Tilney, into the PI business with him. They've been solving cases for Boston's varied praeternatural communities ever since. So when a young Terran feels that the brutal murder of his Beast boyfriend isn't being treated seriously enough by the police, he brings the case to Kanaan & Tilney for a second opinion.

Similarly defiled corpses pop up around Boston as they race to find the killer. All the victims are packless Beasts, like Lowell, and the vicious nature of the killings stir up old prejudices in the praeternatural community, Beast and otherwise. Throw a personal vendetta and some ugly family history for Lowell in the mix, and the trails are as muddy as ever.

This case will test Kanaan & Tilney's strength, both as a PI team and a couple. It'll take all they have to keep each other alive—and stop a serial killer.

Excerpts

1. Investigation Excerpt

A little more thorough crime scene investigation and a short car ride later, John strolled into the morgue right behind Lowell. Sweater Vest—that was to say Reggie, who was a bigwig City Coroner something-something, not to mention a Necromorph of impressive power—looked up from his current “patient” and smiled. “Lowell. They didn’t give you shit at the desk, did they? Hey, John.”

Today’s sweater vest was a great one, though John could only see part of it under Reggie’s lab coat. Some kind of burgundy knit. John didn’t care much for Reggie’s plain button-downs, but the sweater vests, he outright coveted. Wasn’t sure he could pull them off himself but vowed to try someday. John waved hello.

Lowell returned the smile. “Hey, Reg. How’s it going?”

“Eh, Patterson’s having a meltdown about all the voices again—mediums and morgues, right?—so I’m short-staffed. Poor woman. Otherwise, same old. Which one are you here for?” Reggie pulled the sheet up over whatever he’d been working on and took off his blue latex gloves. His hands were his own, but he had one pinkie finger that was definitely a different color than the rest, indicating it had been a transplant.

A year ago, John would’ve just asked about it, but Lowell had taught him what his mother had never managed: sometimes it just wasn’t his damn business.

“Mateo Morales. Beast vic.”

“Right, yeah.” Reggie stuffed the gloves into a biohazard bin and went for his charts. “Someone either trying to make it look like a Beast attack or just really pissed off. I remember.”

Lowell’s eyes followed him. “And what do you think?”

“Neither, really,” Reggie said. He wiped his free hand against his lab coat, then flipped a few pages on the clipboard. “Here, look at this. He’s right over there, but…these slashes were deliberate. Made in threes, yeah, but also, that deep one right there? Carotid. Probably the first one cut.”

“There was blood spray on the wall,” John recalled. “Up high.”

“Before he fell,” Reggie said. He handed the board off to Lowell and led them to a far corner of the morgue.

The place was huge, brightly lit with fluorescents, smelling of chemicals more than anything else. Almost like a hospital, just…well, not a very good one. All slick metal and white tile, though, which was near enough. Most people would call it creepy; John just called it interesting.

So did Reggie, though. Of course, Reggie was one of those Necros to whom death was an actual friend. Every Necromorph drew their energy from some living thing, some chemical reaction, some interplay of organic molecules. Reggie drew his from decomposition.

Seen in a certain light, John could understand how it seemed gross to most people. But really it was just efficient.

“Someone who knew what they were doing, then,” Lowell mused aloud, his expression darkening.

“And I mean to tell the PD that, but…” Reggie shrugged. John was well aware that Reggie and Lowell had similar problems there. Reggie, at least, had a real position of respect, which was pretty amazing for a Necromorph, let alone one with his particular energy source.

“But,” John echoed, scrunching up his nose.

Reggie pulled back the sheet, revealing Morales’s body, cold and bloodless, eyes closed, slashed all to shit. The wounds went in threes, like Reggie said, but it was neater than claws—even John could see that.

Except for a few spots where the flesh was exceptionally ragged. “That’s—wait. Those are bite marks. Like, someone literally took bites of him? Tell me nothing was bitten off. John blinked in amazement. Right, that was gross.

“No, just sliced out. But that’s what everyone will assume, and that’s just part of why they’re going to fight hard for this easy Beast theory of theirs.” Reggie was pulling on a new pair of gloves from the nearest box.

Lowell rubbed at his nose (supersmell must be rough sometimes) and stepped up close to the body. “You know us dangerous Beasts and our violent tempers.” He looked at Reggie. “Any clues on the body?”

“In the same vein…” Reggie reached in and down, lifting a flap of skin. “This bite mark here is the clearest. And this is not animal; it’s a human bite. So if they try any shifted rage-Beast bullshit, we may have them.”

John mumbled, “For all it’ll matter.”

“Sent a sample to the lab. Hopefully there’s DNA. Hopefully we have a match.” Reggie didn’t sound particularly hopeful, though.

Lowell stared at Morales’s body, a frown creasing his brow. “You’ll let us know when you hear back?”

“Yeah,” Reggie said. “Otherwise, what you see is what you get. Few more bites here”—he pointed—“here. Bled out quick.” He gestured to another wound at the radial artery. “It’s vicious and it’s neat, for all it made a mess.”

“The BSPD are going to fuck this up so bad,” John said with a sigh. None of it fit their obvious pet theory. “Glad Fergus came to us.”

Lowell nodded, quiet. “I’ll be glad when we find whoever did this.”

“Nothing major in his belongings. Wallet still had money in it. Keys—keys were out, found them beside him, untouched.” Reggie pulled off the gloves again and deposited them into the nearest bin. “They were just after him.”

John Tilney--praeternatural pyrokinetic and mystery author--has noticed the bottom dropping out of the market for his usual gothic fare, so he goes to Lowell Kanaan, PI, for a crash course in noir. Lowell, the cranky wolf-shifter detective, isn't sure why he agrees to let John shadow him--though it might have something to do with John's weirdly endearing honesty... and pretty lips. John thinks he's found the perfect detective novel hero in Lowell, but it isn't long before he realizes he doesn't want Lowell for his book, but for himself.

As they become entangled in a supernatural whodunnit involving the Zombie Mafia, black market body parts, and shady insurance deals, their partnership grows closer--and hotter. But when it comes down to the wire, Lowell's wolfy protective side threatens to drive John around the bend, or at least out of the office. Good thing John's as much sunshine as he is fire; hopefully it's enough to help them catch a murderer before they end up in literal pieces, too.

Excerpts1. PG-13 Excerpt

It was still dark when Lowell awoke with a start minutes, maybe hours, later. He didn’t know what time it was, but this time he did care. Something was wrong. His gaze swept over the room and landed on a figure on the other side of the bed. He was dressed in dark, form-fitting clothing and wearing a black ski mask. There was a gun in his hand pointing right at the still-sleeping John’s head.

Heart lurching, Lowell started to snarl a threat, but the man held up his free hand and wagged his finger. “Uh-uh-uh. Quiet. Or your chew toy doesn’t wake up ever again.”

The man pressed the muzzle against John’s temple. “Night’s not over yet.”

Lowell fought the urge to leap across the bed at the bastard. “You keep pointing that gun at him, you’re going to lose that arm,” he said darkly.

“And who the fuck are you?” John wrinkled up his nose but held still.

If the man was bothered by Lowell’s threat, he didn’t show it. He didn’t move the gun either. “I’m amazed by how many people ask me that question.” He sounded almost amused by it. “I’m wearing a mask.”

“Who sent you, then?”

“What he said,” John agreed. Worryingly, he didn’t sound the least bit frightened, just frustrated.

The man pressed the gun’s muzzle into John’s temple again, and Lowell felt fear twist tighter in his stomach. “I was sent by someone who doesn’t like you prying into their business.”

“Shouldn’t you be pointing the gun at me, then?” Lowell asked. He didn’t think it would work, but it was worth a try.

The man shrugged. “I like this.”

John still didn’t move, but his jaw twitched. “Well, there’s two of us and one of you, so you’re outvoted. We’re investigators; how are we supposed to know who that cryptic bullshit refers to?”

“He’s the investigator,” the man said, briefly pointing the gun at Lowell before turning it back on John. “You’re just playing at being one. That said, had neither of you interrupted—which was rude, I might add—then I would have had a chance to clarify. The Quintus case. Leave it be.”

Lowell didn’t need to ask, Or what? That part was pretty clear. If the man had been able to get in here so easily, without Lowell’s senses picking up on him, then he’d be able to do it again. Had to be a Psychogenic of some kind, one with no qualms about killing. And right now, his gun was pointed at John. The meaning behind that part was pretty clear too.

“Get the fuck out of here.” John’s voice had acquired a definite snarl. “You shoot me right now, you wind up a bloody, dismembered mess on the floor here, and you know it.”

“Hit a nerve, huh?” The man took a step back, the gun still trained on John but no longer shoved against his temple. “Maybe I would. But I wouldn’t go out alone.” He looked pointedly at Lowell.

Lowell ignored it. Threats on his life were nothing new. “Get out of here,” he said coldly. “You’ve given your message.”

Meanwhile John was mumbling under his breath, “Right, I’m sure this is worth dying for. Dick.”

Lowell shot John a warning look, but the man laughed. “It might just be my idea of fun. I’m looking forward to seeing you boys again. Have a good night.” And then he slipped out of the room and was gone.

After half a beat, John shot up in bed. “Point a gun at me! I’ll set his fucking hair on fire.”

Lowell barely heard him. He felt like his skin was crawling. He got out of bed and checked to make sure the fucker was well and truly gone. Once he was sure, he went through the apartment, checking every door and window. He was seething silently, anger and fear and worry a knotted mess inside him.

This was Lowell’s fucking life. This was the shit he’d dragged John into. A gun pointed at his head over a case he shouldn’t even be involved in. God, that masked asshole was dead if Lowell ever found out who he was. Slowly and messily and until he was fucking begging for it to be over.

John was still babbling, following him around the apartment in his shorts and gesturing wildly. “How do we even find out who he is? We know he’s not Zombie Mafia—and probably a Psy, right? I mean, how else would he get in here without you smelling him and waking up or whatever?”

“We don’t do anything,” Lowell replied. He was sure the apartment was safely locked down, and now he was pacing, unable to sit still.

“Well, he’s not going to just come to us. And if we find him, we find the actual killer, right?”

Lowell turned on John and all but snarled, “No. There is no we, John. That’s what I’m saying. He was right about one thing: You’re not the PI. I am.”

“That was before someone held a gun to your head.” Lowell headed straight for his drink cabinet. “I was wrong.”

2. Rated R Excerpt

John was admiring a photo of mother and son outside somewhere when the shower started running in the bathroom. At first, he didn’t think much of it. But as he moved on to admire the poster of Bela Lugosi in Murders in the Rue Morgue, he realized: Lowell was just behind that door now. That tight little body of his dripping wet.

Of course, John could just stand out here and snoop some more, as it was all very interesting. And you weren’t supposed to get naked before the date—not that John had ever been on an official date before. At least, not that he’d realized at the time. But that wasn’t the right order of operations, was the point.

Still, the mental image of wet Lowell was too much for him. It wasn’t his fault the man was beautiful, now was it? John kicked off his shoes on the way to the door, then knocked. “Lowell? Can I come in?”

There was a pause before Lowell came back with, “Sure.”

John flung his socks away before entering. The bathroom was small, but there was a full-size tub; they’d fit! He peeled off his shirt and set it aside carefully, then admired the latest sucker bite on his collarbone in the mirror as he undid his pants. Yeah, right, that was incredible. Once he dropped the pants and stepped out of his pink boxer-briefs, he pulled aside the shower curtain a little and popped his head in.

Lowell looked toward him, brow knit. “What are you— Right. You meant, could you come into the shower.”

John’s eyebrows went up. His heart hammered against his rib cage, and he wasn’t sure exactly why. It felt like…fear? “Oh! I could…not come in…”

But Lowell laughed, a low, rough sound of amusement. “Nope. By all means, come on in.”

That didn’t slow John’s heart down in the least, but now he recognized that as a good thing. He lingered for a second, taking in, well, exactly what he’d come here for: Lowell’s tight frame, all compact muscle and hard lines and delicious skin flushed from hot water. Spray bounced off him prettily or trickled down his chest, into the hollow inside his hip bone, over his legs and lazy cock, and John had a sudden undeniable thirst. For…something. Something not water.

He liked this feeling. When it hit him, he never wanted it to end.

He slipped inside, smiling at the height difference. It was brilliant, really, how Lowell was so strong, how he owned every room he entered, how John couldn’t see anyone else when he was around, but he was so, well, small, comparatively. John reached out to lay a hand against Lowell’s neck, interrupting the spray of hot water, and ran his thumb along Lowell’s cheekbone.

Lowell leaned into the touch. His cheeks colored, and John wasn’t sure if it was the heat of the water or a blush that caused it. How could someone so bad-ass be so adorable at the same time? John leaned down to kiss him, hot water between their lips, then mumbled into it, “I just wanted to see you wet, to be honest. You definitely don’t disappoint.”

“Neither do you.” Lowell pulled back enough to let his gaze take a slow, appreciative pan down John’s body. He put a hand on John’s waist.

John flushed with pleasure. Honestly, he’d always been gangly and, well, ginger. Never thought he was much to look at, but he’d been called cute enough to know he wasn’t hideous. Hearing it from someone like Lowell, though… He beamed and moved in closer, so their fronts brushed, his slow-swelling cock against Lowell’s hip. That’d speed things right up. This time he went in for the kiss openmouthed.

Lowell’s free hand went to the back of John’s neck, his tongue dipping into John’s mouth as he drew him deeper into the kiss. There was something so mesmerizing about the taste of Lowell, something that made kissing seem less like the test of awareness Macy had taught him and more like… talking to him. A give-and-take that bounced between them, building up energy and coiling it around his spine tighter and tighter. John slipped his free hand around and slid it between the water and Lowell’s ass—which was of the “you could bounce a quarter off it” variety if ever anyone’s was. John palmed it and pulled them tight together so not even water could come between them.

That got John a groan and fingers pressing harder into his neck. Lowell’s cock was growing hard against John’s thigh, which caused a surge of happiness in John’s belly. He liked to know he felt good; he liked to know he made Lowell feel good. He closed off one kiss with a small bite, then went in for another deep one and slid his hand upward into the small of Lowell’s back. He traced the little dip there, smooth skin hot from the shower, then slipped his fingers downward into the split of Lowell’s ass.

Lowell made a sound of encouragement, hips arching into John’s. A sudden, final rush of blood southward made John dizzy. Slowly, appreciating, he traced the hard curve of Lowell’s ass downward, barely unable to reach that sweet spot where it met the backs of his thighs, and the frustration was agonizing. He groaned, pulling his lips off Lowell’s and putting them against the shell of his ear. “Something I always wanted to try…”

He’d been downloading a lot more movies lately. For ideas.

“Hmm?” Lowell had turned his head and was now kissing and mouthing at John’s neck. Goddamn, the way he worked that mouth was just…unnnhhhh.

Right, though. John bit at Lowell’s earlobe gently, then let his teeth scrape across it as he pulled off. “I think I’m having a moment with your ass. Can I eat it?” He tapped it, making a loud snapping noise. And yeah, could definitely bounce a quarter.

Lowell’s answering groan turned into a rough laugh. “I’d ask if you were fucking with me, but I know you better than that by now.” His hand went to John’s shoulder, pressing down. “On your knees, Johnny baby.”